


Dreamscarring

by Haiju



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Bipper, Family, Friendship, Gen, h/c, sock opera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2495006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haiju/pseuds/Haiju
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sticks and stones may break your bones, but dreams will always haunt you. Post-Sock Opera. Collaboration with Anneriawings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreamscarring

**Author's Note:**

> A collaboration oneshot with my dear friend Anneriawings! Because the sheer dark potential of Bipper was way too fun to pass up for a couple of angst writers like us. Cross-posted from Tumblr (and it'll make its way onto FFn eventually, too).
> 
> WARNING: Intense/graphic gore and horror up ahead. Not for the faint of heart. 
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> -Hj

 

In all his twelve and a half years, Dipper rarely had a sound night's sleep. There were too many things to think about, too many problems to solve and worries that gnawing at him. Mabel's snoring didn't help.

Then… there were the nightmares. Ever since coming to the Shack for the summer they seemed longer, more real. Something loomed in the very air Dipper breathed, an inexplicable force that watched him at every turn. He'd wake up in a cold sweat, tight-chested and panting, and crawl out to the roof to watch the sun rise, hugging his knees.

A soft cackle. _Piiiiine Treeeeee…_

He flinched involuntarily at the voice, nausea curling through his stomach. This had to be another nightmare. He was sleep-deprived, exhausted to the bone from staying up so many nights to avoid this. That cackle from _his own body_ – a sound that slashed the stale attic air – it couldn't be real, right?

"Mabel," Dipper wheezed out – or at least tried to. The words formed clear and loud in his head, but his lips weren't moving, like they weren't his own – or maybe too busy stretched in a wild grin— "Mabel!"

On the bad nights – the really bad nights – she'd crawl into his bed, or he'd go over to hers, and they'd sleep together. It was stupid, a baby kind of thing to do, but no dream had ever been so horrible that Mabel's snores right in his ear wouldn't banish them into a comforting haze.

He just had to – to get to her—why wouldn't she wake up? Couldn't she hear him? He gasped a few ragged breaths, then gave up talking and ran for it – bolting with the hair prickling on his neck, dashing across the icy floor and diving into her bed.

Mabel shivered, rolled over and kept snoring. Dipper sighed in relief, glancing back at his bed where his—

his body lay, eyes wide, grinning at him.

The color drained from Dipper's face. He couldn't breathe – his diaphragm physically could not move, his lungs refusing to expand. He glanced wide-eyed back to Mabel, who had gone still. She wasn't breathing either. He shuddered. "M-Mabel?" he managed. What was happening? What was _wrong_ with her?

"She can't hear ya, kid! In the dreamscape, you're as good as dead to her. Just like you're dead to _me._ " The last word twisted with an inflection that turned Dipper's blood to ice. He flinched, looked back to the grinning body rising from his bed.

This wasn't happening. Everything was horrifyingly _wrong_. The world drained of all color and the air went stale, frozen. An electric buzz ran through his teeth, and he wrapped his arms around himself as goose flesh erupted on his…

Dipper choked. His entire body was transparent, his limbs unable to grasp anything. _No no no not again not again—_

He jerked his head up to see _himself_ hovering, pinning him with sadistic yellow eyes. "What's the matter, kid? Bill got your tongue? Ha- _ha._ "

"What did you do to me?!"

"You're a _riot_ , kid!" Bill's chuckle turned to outright raucous laughter, tearing out of Dipper's lips between gaping teeth. "You're even better on the inside! Like those tootsie things! Ha!" Dipper's body grinned, baring teeth and gums.

"Just—just tell me what you want," Dipper gasped. He clawed for his own shaking arms, but they slipped right through. "The laptop's destroyed, what could you possibly—"

A faint, wet pop drew Dipper up short. Tingling fear crept up his nonexistent spine. Something whitish and red flew _through_ his forehead and clacked against the back wall, clattering onto the ground.

Dipper twisted, wobbling in the air, and stared at it. Even in the moonlight the thing was clear to see. Bloody roots under a hard white knob. A tooth.

Pop, pop, pop. More thuds, clattering like marbles down the stairs.

"WHAT are you—what are you doing?!" Dipper gaped at the teeth clattering down the stairs. He spun around and shrieked. His body wore a plastic grin, mouth full of bloody teeth and holes. Blood dripped down his chin.

"Can't a demon of unimaginable horror have some fun? I missed this old meat-bag."

Oh god, this wasn't happening again.

"You aren't as noodley and useless, now. You've caught up on that sleep, haven't you?" Bill swung his head around, surveying the room, reptilian eyes blinking. "Ooh, what's this!"

Dipper stared in horror as his body stumbled over to the nightstand, picking up his pocket knife. It'd been a gift from Stan, Dipper remembered numbly. For self-defense only. To protect himself from the dangers that lurked in the woods.

"White was never my favorite color," Bill remarked. He drew the blade across his stomach, his cackle slamming into Dipper's brain. Dark crimson blossomed through his white shirt. "There we go!"

"Bill, _please!_ "

"Y'know, Pine Tree, I'm not really digging the two-eye thing. Too much peripheral." He clutched the knife in his fingers, blade slicing into his palm, and beamed up at Dipper. "How's about we fix that?"

Panic flew through him. "Get out of my body _right now!_ " Dipper lunged. His arms shot through his stolen body, desperate to latch onto an arm, a leg, _something._ He tumbled with a yelp, his fingers grasping only nothingness. "No," he whimpered, "no, no _no…_ "

"Ha! You should know better by now, kid." He gave a reptilian blink, then scowled into the mirror. "Hmm, which eye should it be… eeny, meeny, miney… Ah, who cares."

Bill plunged the pocket knife into his eye—

" _GAAAHHH!_ "

Dipper jolted upright in bed, choking back a scream, clawing at the—knife in his—he yelped in pain as he accidentally scratched his own eye. It was… well, _now_ it hurt, but it was fine.

"Dipper! Gosh, you got all Fight Fighters there for a minute." Mabel sat cross-legged in bed, still in her pajamas and surrounded by a multitude of doritos. There was a glue gun warming on a pie tin beside her. "Were you beating up on somebody? Haha, only in your dreams, right bro?"

Dipper barely heard her. His chest heaved, tears spilling down his cheeks. He licked his dry lips, running his tongue over his teeth. All there. His jaw ached, but he was pretty sure that was from clenching his teeth in terror. He leaned back on the headboard, fighting to calm his racing heart, then glanced around. The pocket knife sat innocently on the dresser, where he'd left it.

Except…

He grew cold. Grunkle Stan hadn't given him the knife. Not yet. Said he'd had to earn it. Be a man before he carried a man's tool. Dipper pulled his knees to his chest and shuddered. Maybe making a deal with an interdimensional monster was manly. Who was he to know?

"Was Grunkle Stan mad? About the fight?" Dipper ventured. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer.

Mabel snickered, snatching up a dorito and stuffing it into her mouth.

Dipper cringed. "I mean, it was a stupid thing to do, I knew Bill was trouble, but—"

"D'you think he cares?" Mabel stared past him at the stained glass window with its triangular motif, her eyes half lidded, kicking her heels. A little smile played around her orange-dorito lips. "I mean, you _are_ pretty lame."

"Mabel, that's…" His shoulders drooped. She was probably right. But hearing it from his sister, that stung.

"Hey Dipper, watch this!" He looked up. Mabel threw her head back and squirted hot liquid glue into her eye.

Dipper gaped in horror.

Mabel grinned, twitching as the eye sizzled and cooked. She tossed aside the empty glue gun and raised her head, looking straight at Dipper. Blood glopped out of the hole in her face, trickling through her braces and dripping off her chin. The remaining eye glowed with a wicked yellow light.

"Oh my god, oh my – _Mabel!_ " Dipper tossed the sheets aside and scrambled out of bed, his knees trembling. Mabel's remaining eye blinked owlishly, and he froze – it had that same reptilian look in it, just like when–

"Digging into your mind and altering your reality is so much _fun!_ "

Cipher.

" _Get out of my sister!_ " Dipper shrieked, lunging for Mabel's body. Bill rushed to the side with alarming speed and stopped at the top of the staircase, twisting back to look at him. Mabel's neck let out a series of sharp pops.

"Catch me if you can, kid!"

Dipper's legs pumped through the air, barely vapor, slow as fog, he couldn't—

A manic grin spread across Mabel's face. Her body went stiff-legged – then she pitched head-first down the stairs. Dipper made one last grab for her – his hand slipped right _through_ her hair—

"Mabe—oof!" Gravity remembered Dipper existed and snatched him right out of the air. He gasped; there was a confusing whirl of white and blue— _where?_ —and he crashed onto the floor. Hard, cold tile. Weird, sickly smells that made him shiver and feel like vomiting. A stabbing pain in his right arm. Scratch that – stabbing pain everywhere. _Everything_ hurt. Metal banged and clattered around him.

A gasp. "Dipper! Geez louise, you okay?"

He moaned, lifting his head enough to see rainbow sneakers flash into sight. He'd never been so glad to see something so nauseatingly sparkly.

But – _no._

Dipper scooted away, holding his heads in his hands. "Why are you doing this," he moaned. "What do you want from me?" His back pressed against the cold metal frame of a bed – his bed? This was just another nightmare. How long would this go on? 'Till he lost it? Hadn't he lost it already?

Mabel – no, Mabel's _corpse_ – tilted its head. "What are you talking about, dummy?" Bill stepped forward, holding her hand out. "Here, lemme help you up."

"Get away!" Dipper kicked out – _oww_ – and felt his foot connect with Bill's—Mabel's shin.

"Oww! Dipper, it's _me!_ Cut it out, stinky head!"

He hesitated. How could he know that it was her? Every single adventure, every secret they'd ever shared – Bill knew it all. There was no test, no clue that could solve this. No escape.

"I'm dreaming," he whispered, hugging his chest. _Oww._ He glanced down – bandages littered his arms, the one on his right wrist stained a reddish-yellow.

Not-Mabel crouched down, hugging her knees, trying to catch his eye. He refused to look directly at her. At least… at least this one had both eyes, still, he realized with a touch of relief. It wasn't grinning like crazy. She wasn't grinning at all, actually, her lips pursed and turned down. That was the real Mabel's worried face. She didn't wear that one too often.

"You can't spend the night on the floor, Dip."

He shook his head. "You're not gonna touch me," he whispered. "I… Bill, you're sick. I'm sick of this. Just—just finish whatever it is you're doing, and go away…"

Mabel scowled. Sneakers squeaked away at full speed. "Grunkle Stan, help!"

Voices echoed in from the hall.

"Dipper's acting crazy for coco-puffs! He's really scared!"

"Scared?" Grunkle Stan's gruff voice came in. "Kid's dumb enough to blow up a theater, and he's scared of a little antiseptic?" A pause. "That's Dipper for you, I guess."

There were no horrifying screams, no sprays of blood. Maybe Bill had gotten bored. Dipper's eyes wandered, and he took in the place he'd ended up. A room painted in dingy blue, with white tile floors and white cabinets on the walls. A sink and another door that stood ajar – a bathroom – in the corner. If this was part of his subconscious, it wasn't something he remembered.

"What are you… playing at?" Dipper glanced to his left; a dozen monitors, blocky and covered with knobs and wires, hung along the wall like odd decorations. They were off, but they still sent a chill down his spine. Hospital. Why would he be… Oh.

Right.

Maybe this _was_ real. Dipper struggled to sit up, wincing. His arm twinged in protest. The door swung open before he'd quite gotten his legs to stay under him. Two sets of shoes this time – old, dusty black loafers and the rainbows again.

"Kid, you look horrible." Grunkle Stan peered at him through thick, square back lenses. Two eyes. Dipper counted. "What, are beds not good enough for kids these days? Come on, you're getting blood on the floor and the night nurse is—well, she's hideous. Let's not get her back in here, okay?"

A big, square hand descended on him and picked Dipper up under the armpits, depositing him on the bed before he could so much as cringe. There was a needle dangling from an IV stand nearby. Grunkle Stan picked it up, squinted at it, glanced at the door, then shrugged, wiping it off on his lapel. "Hold still, Dipper."

Dipper's eyes widened. "Sh-shouldn't that be… sterile?"

His uncle considered it a moment, then shrugged again and tossed it aside. "You don't need more drugs anyway, too expensive. You're up, you're good, let's go home and maybe they'll only charge us for a half night."

"Grunkle Stan!" Mabel protested, sounding horrified.

"What? Hospitals are expensive!"

"We can't just _leave!_ Dipper's still hurt!"

"I'm fine, Mabel. Really." Dipper eyed them. They _seemed_ normal… he had to be awake now. It had just been a dream. A horrible, traumatizing nightmare that would ensure he wouldn't get a wink of sleep for at least a few more days, but still just a dream.

…would he ever be able to sleep again?

Mabel slumped. "Are you sure?" She asked softly, her voice laced with worry. "You didn't sound fine a few minutes ago."

"Absolutely," he forced, giving a half-smile. "Nothing a little Tylenol and some sleep won't fix, y'know?" He rubbed the thick bandages on his wrist, feeling the bruises deep within his bones. It probably wasn't fractured… but it still ached like hell. Everything did. Yesterday washed over him like a bath of ice water, and he shuddered, closing his heavy eyelids.

" _Pain is hilarious!"_

Dipper took in a sharp breath – his ribs aching in protest – and slid off the bed. "Can we go?"

* * *

Grunkle Stan somehow talked them past the night nurse – who was indeed hideous, and slightly scaly, Dipper noticed, with a distracted sense that he ought to be curious about that kind of thing. Mabel clung to his arm all the way to the car.

He didn't even complain about the pain; it felt nice to have her right there, warm and with scratchy pink wool brushing his shoulder and her constant chatter about nothing and everything.

"—the newspaper says there weren't any casualties—and I guess that's true if you're not counting puppets." She paused long enough to sigh. "All that beautiful teamwork, wasted… all that luscious golden hair…"

Dipper shuffled his feet, wiggling his toes inside the splint that held his two middle toes in place. He hadn't just stopped her puppet show, he'd wrecked it. Completely. And the stage, and her chances with this new guy. And the town kind of hated them now…

Mabel must've figured out what he was thinking, because she went on, way too quickly and loudly. "But that guy, ha! Such a bozo he turned out to be. I bet he's never even heard of BABBA. How lame is that?"

"Shhhh!" Another night nurse, this one even paler and scalier. "The patients are asssleep."

They hurried past her and through the exit doors. Grunkle Stan had pulled around the car and they piled into the back. Dipper glanced back once, and he could swear he saw the nurse watching them through the dim glass, and that she flicked out a long, forked tongue.

"Wait a minute, my journal!" Pulling open his vest, Dipper felt for the book – the leather that usually pressed against his side wasn't there. He tore through the mess of old boxes, candy wrappers and sequins on the floorboard, terror leaking down his spine. Did Bill get to it? Where—

"Relax, bro, I'm way ahead of ya." The journal appeared in front of him – Mabel wearing a confident grin. "I hide lotsa things inside my sweater."

He exhaled, taking the dirty, tattered book and hugging it close. "Thanks, Mabel. I don't know what I would do if I ever lost this…"

"Say, what did—" Mabel glanced up at Grunkle Stan, who was humming along to the soft oldies music up front. "What did Triangle Guy want with it, anyway?" She spoke softly, tilting her head. "He wrecked my entire show just to get it."

I _wrecked your entire show just to get it._ Dipper's shoulders slumped. "I think he knows we're onto something big with all of these mysteries… He even destroyed the laptop I worked so hard trying to crack, and—"

"Wait, what?!"

He winced as the car jolted across a pothole. "He said we were getting too close to figuring out some 'major answers'. The journal was next… I feel like he'll be back to destroy it."

"Well, we'll just have to protect it, then!" She threw him a hesitant smile, but Dipper looked away. He heard her sigh, then place a hand on his shoulder. "Look, bro, I'm sorry for everything that happened. I shouldn't have taken the journal – I know it's waay important to you. Too important for some dumb prop."

He glance up, heart twisting at the guilt on her face. That dumb prop had almost gotten them both killed. The journal was important, but… His sister's body crashing down the stairs wouldn't get out of his head. He shuddered. "Forget it, Mabel. Pretty sure I win the screwup award for today."

"Yay screwup awards!" Mabel cheered, producing a sticker book from inside her sweater. She stuck a smiling star on his t-shirt. "You get silver, I get bronze. Bill gets the gold, though – he didn't destroy the journal or you! Am I right? His loss! It's over for him!"

Dipper stared out the window at the dark woods flickering past. Was it?

* * *

It was well after midnight when the ancient El Diablo rolled up to the Shack. Dipper shivered at the squeal of the brakes raking against his skin. Mabel, who leaned against his shoulder, stirred. "Whahuh, we there yet?" She mumbled.

"We are now." Grunkle Stan slid out of the driver's seat and stretched, his back popping. "The broke yokels up at city hall couldn't build a hospital on this side of the county. If I paid my taxes I'd be outraged."

Dipper struggled to remove his seatbelt with one hand. He cursed under his breath, a frustrated lump welling in his throat, when Mabel swatted his hand away. "Chill, Dip, I got it."

She ushered him out of the car and half-dragged him to the door. "Let's get you some ice-packs, then it's straight to bed for you, mister."

"Ugh. Darn pig's been in here again," Grunkle Stan muttered as he led the way into the kitchen, kicking aside a crumpled soda can and stomping through the sticky orange residue on the floor. "Look at this mess. Ridiculous. Mabel, grab some paper towels or something."

Dipper was trying his absolute hardest not to look. He hovered in the kitchen door frame, curling his fingers. His eyes watered at the sharp artificial-sugar tang wafting up from the floor. Forks glinted in the open drawer by the fridge.

" _Boy, these arms are_ durable _."_

Dipper sucked in a breath, the air around him feeling stuffy and hot. His left arm twinged beneath the thick, itchy cast. He clenched his eyes shut, leaning against the hardwood.

He wanted out of here. Now.

"G-Grunkle Stan," he mumbled to the man rummaging around in the crusty freezer. "Can I just go to bed?"

"Suit yourself," he grunted, but Dipper was already headed for the stairs. He glanced at the bottom step and froze. A small crack nearly split the step in two, tiny chips of wood littering the carpet. Hardly noticeable to someone who didn't know where to look.

" _Race ya to the bottom of the stairs!"_

His stomach rolled, and he glanced around, calculating how fast it would take to reach the bathroom. Would he have enough time to make it? The kitchen was closest, he could throw up in the sink—

_No. Just stop, breathe._ His heart pounded in his ears, and he gripped the banister, trying to regain his sense of reality. Focus on something, _anything._ Anything but the nausea curling in his throat, or the burning wetness springing to his eyes, or the sweat trickling down his back—

"Yo, Dippingsauce, what's up? Need some help?" Mabel leaned into his face, puffing out her cheeks and studying his expression.

Dipper shrugged; he was being stupid, that was all. His eyes fell on the third step up. "I'm fine, I just…" Blood. There was blood there. Sticky, dark red blood. And was that… hair stuck on it? His scalp burned. His feet took him a step back before he'd even realized it. "Can… Grunkle Stan, you think I can I sleep on the couch tonight?"

* * *

Dipper stared at the ceiling.

He heard the kitchen clock chime two am, the rhythmic ticking failing to lull him to sleep. A soft glow from the stove light trickled into the living room; Grunkle Stan bustled around the kitchen like an old woman, clanging pots and dustpans and muttering to himself occasionally. Dipper wondered how the hell the old man was still awake; as far as he knew he was never up this late. It violated some kind of old-man decree.

Dipper knew he should sleep. He was still technically sleep-deprived, and his battered body was still healing. His eyelids were sticky and thick. His head felt like it was wrapped into cotton wool. He ought to sleep. He needed to.

But he couldn't. Not when he _knew_ Bill was lurking in the shadows, waiting for the second he lost consciousness to torture him. Dipper rolled onto his side, wincing as he jostled various bruises and cuts. What would he do when Bill came back? Would he be forced to watch people – Mabel, Grunkle Stan, Wendy – get hurt, really hurt? Watch as his own body was torn to pieces? Would he ever wake _up?_

Dipper threw the stuffy blanket off his shoulders, heart racing. His chest felt like a thousand-pound weight was pressed against it. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his shorts and squeezed his eyes shut – not sleeping, just blocking it all out, for just a moment, to stave off the bubbling panic—

"Hey. Kid. You okay?"

Dipper's eyes shot open, and he tried not to flinch at the sight of Grunkle Stan hovering over him in the darkened room. The man wore an odd expression, rubbing his damp hands on his old wife beater.

"Surprised you're still up. Something eatin' ya?" His uncle found an awkward perch at the end of the couch. Dipper sat up, hugging his knees.

"Nah," he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "It's just – you know. Hot in here."

"Sure it is. Which is why you're shivering. Here." A glass of water appeared in Dipper's vision. He hesitated, then took it, hardly trusting himself not to spill it.

Grunkle Stan watched him take a few sips. It helped. A little. His uncle cleared his throat and crossed his arms. "Now you gonna tell me what's got you so upset?"

"I'm not— it's nothing. I'm just thinking. Deep thoughts, or whatever. Kids do that."

His uncle sighed. "Dipper, you think too much. You're too smart for your own good. Or at least… I thought so till yesterday." He scowled. "As much as I like a good brawl, that's not how family treats each other. Especially you two. Sure, Mabel gets on your nerves, but I've never seen you two go at it like that."

"We were just… kids being kids, you know?" He chuckled weakly.

Grunkle Stan didn't smile back. "Your sister has a black eye. She thinks I didn't spot it, but a little concealer's not gonna hide it tomorrow."

Dipper fought to keep his hands from shaking. He set the glass of water down on the end table, rubbing his palm against the blanket. "We— I mean, siblings fight sometimes… rivalry and all. It's—it's nothing new."

Grunkle Stan took off his glasses and polished them on a less-greasy corner of his shirt. "Was she the one stabbing you with cutlery earlier?"

Dipper froze. His dry mouth opened and closed a few times before he forced his voice to work. "I uh—that wasn't her fault. I fell on a… a rake. A little one." He hugged his arms a little closer to his knees, wincing at the pull of bandages against the scabs littering his wrists. "Lots of them," he rasped.

"Don't try that with me, kid. I just got done washing the dishes. There's blood on all my forks and holes in your arms. You don't need a photo to find a Sasquatch if he's squatting in your front yard, you follow?"

Dipper couldn't find anything to say to that. He'd spent the first half of the summer convinced that Grunkle Stan was too stubborn or too old and blind to notice all the crazy supernatural things that happened here. Instead he'd turned out to be the one adult who seemed to see everything as well as they did. Yet another mystery Dipper wasn't bright enough to solve on his own.

The old man leaned back and scratched at his undershirt. "How's about I make you a deal?"

Dipper flinched violently at the words. Grunkle Stan didn't seem to notice. "You tell me what's really up, and I'll keep the hospital trip from your parents. I'll even foot the bill."

A rock-hard lump lodged in his throat. His parents. He'd forgotten. What could he even begin to say to them about… all this? What if they blamed Grunkle Stan? What if they took him and Mabel back home? What if… Bill followed?

Air sailed into his lungs. The world shifted and grew fuzzy, his uncle blurring. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he had to look fiercely down at his knees, gripping them for dear life. This was all his fault. He was so stupid. If only he'd…

"Dipper? You need a paper bag or somethin'?"

"It was Bill." He blurted it out all at once. If it sounded like a sob, he couldn't help it. "Bill Cipher."

"Oh." Grunkle Stan stilled. The shadows on his face seemed to deepen, carving dark lines into his bristling, unshaven face. Then he grunted. "Well?"

"I-I messed up. He got… inside me. Made me do things that I…" He sucked in a breath. "I couldn't stop him. I was _helpless._ And…" Dipper's hands shook. He knotted them into fists and squeezed them in his lap. His voice dropped to a whisper, as if just saying it out loud would make it true. "And I'm afraid he'll come back."

Grunkle Stan sat silent for a long moment, staring hard at the far wall.

"Well, you let him in, right? Made some kinda pact."

His ears burned with shame. Dipper nodded.

"Then keeping him away is easy, right?" Grunkle Stan grinned, spreading out one hand as if revealing an imaginary billboard. "Just say no. Ha! I should put that on a T-shirt!"

Dipper blinked up at his great uncle stupidly. That almost made it sound like he'd dreamed the whole thing up – like he was a little kid scared of his own imagination. That wasn't it. That wasn't it at all.

"It… it can't be that simple. Right? I mean, Bill is… something else." Something wordless, something untouchable… "Something awful."

"That three-cornered creep?" Grunkle Stan stood up, scratching at his chest. "A nightmare, kid. A really nasty one. That's all. He's nothing outside of that dreamscape of his."

Dipper stilled. "Wait, how did y—

"Oh, what's that? My hearing aid's going freaky. There's been all this dang interference lately… like the house is bugged or something. Ha! Like that would happen." He scowled up at the ceiling. "Ya hear that, NSA? I paid ALL MY TAXES! I AM AN UPSTANDING CITIZEN!"

"Grunkle Stan…"

He turned, eyes softening. "Sleep kid, and pronto. You look terrible."

"But what if he—"

"Dipper." Stan knelt down to his level and placed a hand on his shoulder. "For once, I'm being completely honest here. Trust me when I say you've got nothing to worry about!" He tapped Dipper's temple, grinning. "It's all in that oversized head of yours. And it's gonna stay that way."

Dipper hesitated, then slumped. "Thanks, Grunkle Stan," he muttered, not convinced, but… it felt better. A little. He scrubbed at his eyes.

"You got it, kid." Dipper watched his uncle trudge to the hall; Grunkle Stan lingered in the doorway. "You better get that shuteye – you gotta be up before noon to watch the shop. What do you think I'm running here, a boarding house?"

* * *

The clock ticked. Shadows crept across the wall as slow as glaciers. The shack creaked and outside pines moaned against the wind. Dipper stared at the ceiling. His head pounded dully. His arms ached.

No nightmares. No sleep, either.

He was just about to give up and turn on the TV when something thumped down the stairs. The floorboards creaked. Strawberry lotion and mothball smells drifted across the room. Dipper smiled. He wiggled over a little to give Mabel some space. She crawled up onto the couch. Her hair, warm and weird-girly-smelling, tickled his face, and then she'd curled up like a cat and snuggled into his side. He patted her head. She purred, then rolled over and promptly began to snore.

_Oww_. Mabel was heavy. And on top of him. Dipper wriggled, but he was trapped. "I can't feel my legs," he whispered. "Mabel, seriously…"

"Deal with it, bropillow," she mumbled.

Dipper let his head fall back on the couch. He couldn't help it; he chuckled. If Bill took over now, the joke was on him. He was nothing but human a pillow stuck on a couch.

Maybe Stan was right. He yawned, and his eyes drifted shut. Darkness, soft and itchy like Mabel's sweater, wrapped around his mind.

Maybe things would be okay.


End file.
